A Lesson in Magic
by LogicalBookThief
Summary: John Watson never thought about actual wizards existing, and as far as he or anyone else knew, they didn't. That was before a life-or-death moment on a case revealed the most startling and unusual truth about Sherlock Holmes yet. Harry Potter Crossover.
1. The Dream, the Chase, and the Spell

It had to be written. It just had to.

I was on DeviantArt and inspired by a pic called _BBC Sherlock - rebels_ made by Clicio (I compel you to go check it out somehow, it is awesome!)

And as a Potter Nerd all the way, my combined love for Sherlock and HP made it impossible for the plot bunny to slip away. So, to quote _Dr. Who,_ my whole brain just sort of went, 'What the hell?'

**Warnings: **Violence later on, swear words, and probably some eventual John/Sherlock because I love it.

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><p><em>A park scenery stood serenely in the background, a playground inhabited by a local group of visitors. A teeter-totter swung back in forth at a pendulum's speed and a merry-go-round whirled all in sync with the gentle sway of the wind. <em>

_Away from this horde of wholesome neighbors, a single child stood alone. In his pale hand, he held a flower petal, closed up and hiding from the late afternoon sun. Silently, the little boy drew closer to the slide and swing set, the blossom perched securely in his hand._

_At first, the others were none-the-wiser to his intentions. However, suddenly one curious bystander acknowledged his approach and decided to see what was up. Then, like a strategically placed row of dominoes, the rest followed suit._

_Having their full attention at last, just as he wanted, the boy smiled. Anxiously, he held out the palm that encased the flower. Without a flick of his fingers or a even a twitch of the breeze to assist him, the flower petals opened up to display the beautiful blossom hidden inside. Gasps arose._

_"Look!" the boy cried with delight, eyes gleaming in accomplished excitement. He had been at this for a while now, attempting to make the petals bend to his whim. And now that he had it mastered, why shouldn't he share his ability and gain the rightfully earned praise?_

_But there were no immediate sounds of stunned spectators or impressed chatter. Plenty of them were gaping, of course, yet the joy was mysteriously absent._

_Strange, the now perplexed child thought, as he had assumed the feat quite incredible indeed! At least somebody should be congratulating him by now..._

_Instead, all he received was the slow-moving clatter of feet backing away. Whispered words he couldn't quite make out and shadowed glances made until he caught them with his own; then they would be retracted quickly, averting to the ground or sky, anywhere but him. Puzzled, he simply stood in the midst, utterly put off by the behavior._

_Something went wrong, he concluded furiously, but was helpless to deduce the rest. What had he done to deserve such scandalized, sideways glares?_

_He had only wanted things to get better. Only wanted them to want to get along with him. He had worked his hardest to achieve that trick, and for what? All he had hoped for was a playmate or two to keep him company...was it all too much to ask?_

_"Freak," the voices reviled, crowding around him. The previously attained anticipation thrumming in his chest melted at the sheer burn orchestrated on those faces. There was no awe or surprise as he had expected._

_Only aghast. Shock. Disapproval. And anger at what they couldn't understand._

_Blue eyes fell with the harrowing loss of hope, blacks curls deflating as the breeze died down. Why were they so afraid? Why were they looking at him with those hating, hurtful eyes...?_

_His confusion was his downfall. For they saw his weakness, and three who had before been backing away now abruptly stepped forward. They had no affinity for knowledge or any unique ability like he did. However, they were quite taller and bulkier than he, which was why shoving him painfully to the ground was no arduous task._

_And the remainder of them merely gazed on with fear and contempt, their eyes still screaming at him in that apathetic mantra of, 'You deserve this. It's your fault for being different.'_

_He distinctly remembered screaming for them to stop, aching for only acceptance, and in turn getting brutality. Such harsh, calloused words raining down upon him, more sharp and searing as the blow themselves. Blows made by persons not much..._

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><p>Sherlock Holmes awoke with an inaudible gasp, clawing at the covers that were tightening around his repeatedly abused neck. Then he realized it was his body doing the asphyxiating, a response to age-old fear, and berated himself for not being adeptly alert as per usual.<p>

Certain things in this world still caught even the world's greatest detective off guard. Certain nightmares, at least. Just another reason to abhor sleep, he decided morosely.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang up the staircase, and he took this time to notice he had fallen asleep on the couch again. He groaned, wanting nothing more than to resume suffocating himself in the pillow beneath his messy curls. "Inspector Lestrade has just arrived, dear! Seems you have a case!"

Without another word of complaint, Sherlock sprung from the confinement of the cushions and hastily drew a robe around his dishelved form. This was more than enough reason to be dragged from bed. A case! Oh, thank the bloody imbeciles over at the police department, he had a case!

The boredom had really begun to get overbearing as a week or two fled by, no signs of any ominous murders or puzzling disappearances posted in either the newspaper or on the telly. Insufferable, really, and probably the reason those damnable dreams had been able to breach the carefully crafted barriers of his mind. He never dreamt when his brain was focused on more important subjects.

Just as he was about to leave and plunge into yet another misadventure, John cut him off from the opposite side of the doorway, carrying a bag he suspected was filled with groceries.

John cocked an uncertain brow at him. "Going somewhere?"

Sherlock was so pleased he was nearly giddy.

"Lestrade's come to fetch me for a case. Finally, a reprieve from that lengthy period of mundane activity! I'd appreciate it if you tagged along, actually. Could use another competent set of eyes to bounce ideas off."

"Well, sure, but—"

"But, what?"

John gestured to his attire, looking dangerously close to laughing. "In your sleeping outfit...?"

Sherlock snorted. He was wasting time on such a trivial matter?

"Pants are for idiots!" he declared over his shoulder, conquering the steps with ease, while a snickering John Watson went after him.

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><p>Truer words had even been spoken, John adamantly admitted a day and a half later, as he, Sherlock, and Lestrade were perched outside the crook's rendezvous, ready to strike.<p>

After all, Sherlock had easily deduced the basics of the case, the color of the perpetrator's coat, and discovered his occupation with little to no effort at all, while in sleeping shorts; while Anderson and his crew had been baffled in their properly donned suits.

Roderick Badger—the rodent, as Sherlock had taken to calling him, and John saw no fit reason to discourage it—was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but certainly one of the quickest to disappear, which is why it was vital they catch him before he was scheduled to leave town.

Conveniently, him and Sherlock's combined powers figured out that the specific date of departure was in a mere few hours, so time was of the essence to put the crook behind bars.

"Now, we'll wait for an opportune moment to strike," Lestrade was saying strategically, in a hushed tone, "so no taking risks and exposing us early. Right, Sherlock?"

"Why am I always pointed at?" the detective whispered back, petulantly.

"Because you're the one most likely to act on impulse, _and_ the only one not armed with a weapon."

"Shh, here they come," alerted John. The trio fell silently when two men approached the run-down vehicle in the center of the abandoned garage.

"Ol' Roddy travelin' shoddy? What's this bloody world coming to?"

Rod scoffed, "Please. This rubbish is just enough to take me out of the city. Then we chuck it, buy a sleek new ride, and I'm golden."

"Uh huh. Reckon this plan's too perfect to get caught on, then?" said the nameless man, raising a scruffy eyebrow.

"If I haven't been charged by now, what makes ya' think I will be anytime soon?"

"Frankly, I would have to disagree," said Sherlock suddenly, straightening himself so both blokes could see him clearly. There a distinct note of annoyance in his voice, "I mean, it is one thing to be arrogant. It is entirely another to be arrogant _and_ stupid."

"Who the 'ell are you?" demanded the accomplice. At once, two weapons were aimed threateningly towards the detective.

"Pretty stupid, coming here alone," said Badger darkly. His gun was cocked and his crooked teeth posed excitedly. He was itching for a fight.

Luckily, both John and Lestrade took that as the cue to reveal themselves and aimed their weapons right back at the crooks.

"Alone?" Sherlock repeated calmly. "No, unfortunately for you, I'm not. See, I usually get into trouble on my own, or so I'm told. So I suggest you come quietly, or else these two trigger-happy cohorts of mine will have an awful lot of paperwork over the subject. Dreadful stuff, paperwork is."

The accomplice was looking increasingly uneasy, but did not lower his gun. Badger, however, growled like a cornered dog, "I _ain't_ going to prison."

"Better than being dead," Lestrade advised. His eyes never left the targets. "If I were you, I'd be smart and listen to him."

John remembered something Sherlock had once said to him about stupid criminals never listening. Like most statements the consulting detective threw out of his mouth, the words definitely held some merit worth listening to. Even still, you can never completely prepare for the unpredictable.

Like most terrible situations, it started with a _bang._ The concerned accomplice shot and missed Lestrade by a few close inches, prompting the inspector to retaliate. Badger followed suit, shooting for Sherlock's unprotected form, only to be thwarted by John's much more experienced hand.

Of course, most wounded animals never went down without a desperate fight. And Badger, in this instance, was no better than a snarling creature caught in the crossfire. The bullet battle continued for a brief juncture without any fruitful results. Until, taking cover behind the beat-up car, Badger let the accomplice keep them busy with his continual shots, while he snuck up unnoticed.

Years of target training finally paid off, and Lestrade managed to get a hit on the accomplice's shoulder, rendering him useless. But at that exact moment, Badger jumped over from behind the rear end of the car and knocked the gun right out of closest do-gooder's hand. _"Gotcha."_ He scowled a vicious smile.

In a matter of moments, the gun was poised, the perfect shot aimed, and all three men in the room realized a minute before the inevitable trigger pulled that neither of them could move in time to stop it. It was simply impossible.

"JOHN!"

John heard the sound of Sherlock's shout in sync with his own thunderous heartbeat—that irrevocable moment when you know your life is about to be forfeited into the Reaper's grasp, and all you can do is wait and pray for something to go wrong in the millisecond margin before the scythe falls in a final, fatal swoop.

He'd been in near-death situations before and was much too experienced at this point for fear; only a twinge of regret for dying just when life had begun to get interesting shattered the bulwark of his soldier's acceptance.

Yet death never came. The click of the trigger never registered, because it never happened, for an almost desperate sounding echo was released beforehand. A sudden, almost deafening cry of, _"Stupefy!"_

And then to John's absolute amazement, the man flourishing the gun went rigid with a hoarse yelp, collapsing onto the floor like a paralyzed slab of brick.

Silence descended, with the threat of demise now gone, or at least knocked out cold. John found his pulse still erratic, drumming to the beat of not only intense relief, but triumph—he had escaped the Reaper once more.

Smiling unashamedly, he glanced around to get a better look at the flatmate who had again managed to save his arse, and also get a full-detailed explanation on how he did it this time—when John realized something was terribly off.

Sherlock was breathing hard, his usual mask of perpetual calm diminished into a gaze of utmost distress. His hair was more unruly than usual from a trembling hand that ran itself through his dark locks, staring at the man he had just defeated with a simple command. Or had it been..._more_ than just a word?

John hadn't even considered that. He only went by what he had heard, and that was a garbled sort of shout, but whatever kind of language it was, it had done the trick. His only queries were why...? ...how? ...and why was Sherlock so disturbed by an endeavor he initiated?

The revelation of what occurred finally seemed to sink in, and John belatedly figured out that his friend was actually in _shock_ of his own actions. No sooner than the epiphany came did the shock suddenly wear off, and clarity settled in. Horror flitted across that pale face in a way that made the ex-army doctor's stomach twist.

"No," Sherlock barely whispered, the hand running through his ruffled hair now clenching the scalp in what looked like a painful grip. Said hand was still perceptibly shaking. _"No..."_

"Sherlock, what—?" Before the hesitant askance could even escape his mouth, Sherlock was on his feet and leaving without further adieu or explanation.

John had never seen his friend so sick or frightened. It astonished and alarmed him on so many unwanted levels. And as appalled as he was, still frozen in surprise from the last ten minutes, he still managed to act on instinct and do what he did best.

Without another thought, John leapt up and after his friend's retreating back despite Lestrade's stalling protest and did what he was possibly destined to do for the rest of his lively days; chase after the rebellious yet brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

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><p>Good? Bad? I'd really like to know. *pleadings puppy eyes* Should I continue?<p> 


	2. A Wizard Among Men

Hello! Um, first, I would like to express my amazement and gratitude for all the reviews and alerts I have seen! I appreciate all the critique and encouragement!

Anyone else see _A Scandal in Belgravia?_ Probably. I watched it online and holy crud was my mind was _blown! _We read _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ in school this year, and I loved it, so I can't wait for next episode!

Anyways, sorry if I missed any mistakes in advance. No real warnings for this chapter. Hope you all enjoy! (:

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><p>He had never meant for anyone to find out.<p>

You would think it would be difficult to hide such a monumental part of your life from everyone around you. But not for Sherlock Holmes, master of suppression. He had lasted for years at 221B Baker Street without so much as one person suspecting him as being anything other than a genius jerk.

Because it was one thing to be outstanding when it came to solving mysteries, bringing criminals to justice and diabolical plots to their doom. It was entirely different to be actually...well..._extraordinary. _Not through intelligence or lack of social skills, but supernaturally so.

Sherlock had designed a life for himself where those supernatural aspects were unnecessary and unneeded. Therefore, what was the point in using them? It was the perfect paradox in which he would never have to expose his true nature to anyone.

Unless, of course, an unforeseen life-or-death instance would have to go and subconsciously drag the magic out of him. Yes, _magic._

While he had been an exceedingly clever child, that was not _all_ he had ever been. Plenty of Holmes in the family lineage were clever. However, as far as he knew, he was the only relative who was born a wizard.

And Sherlock, no matter how easily he ignored this fact, could never _stop_ being a wizard. Which put quite a damper on the comfortable position he had construed for himself here in London. Pretending was always an option, but now he required an alternative. Which left the blaring, unanswered question at hand: _What now?_

He could run.

Sherlock was by no means adverse to the plan. He had proven it just now, when he sprinted away from the startled faces of John and Lestrade. Along with the impulsive idea, though, came an insufferable lists of doubts. Doubts he wasn't keen to linger on—but with a mind like his, every doubt had to be _thoroughly_ probed.

So, what was he to do? Throw away this life and pick up another? Rebuild once more and convince himself that, yes, it was for the best and nobody would miss him anyway. Mycroft could make it happen with a swish of that infuriating umbrella. One phone call and he could... It was so remarkably easy to plan.

Sherlock usually called people who took the easy way out for their own convenience cowards. But with him, it had never been about cowardice—it was survival, always about survival.

To ease his internal struggle, he headed into the bathroom for a cold splash of water. In the mirror, Sherlock could see that his face was still flushed from the earlier extertion, and his eyes were lined with edges of old ghosts and darkness. He would have disregarded the observation from his mind and went back to his inward crisis, had the bloody household items not started talking to him again.

_Disappearing, again?_ his reflection seemed to mock.

He countered it with a dry, unamused look.

_Well, up until this point, it had been working rather fairly in my favor._

Giving the bothersome mirror no time to taunt him further, Sherlock quickly retreated into the bedroom. There, he sifted through the miscellaneous junk scattered underneath his bed, trying to locate the suitcase he knew he had stored. He eventually found the case, but hesitated in retrieving it.

Eventually, he stood up and began to pace instead. Entering the living area, where the curtains were half-drawn, half-opened, and drawing curious shadows across the wall, he found his thoughts continued to waver.

Nobody would care if he were to up and vanish one day...but would he miss them?

Perhaps _miss_ was too strong a word, or _them_ too personal a pronoun. How about, would he miss the routine?

Would he yearn for the mysteries Lestrade invited him to consult on that cured his wretched boredom? Mrs. Hudson's affectionate doting? The free meals from grateful restaurant owners? Brown-nosing the oblivious Molly to get what he wanted at the morgue? ...or sharing the flat with John; a true, unexpected friend?

Was he prepared to give all this up in exchange for a clean slate that might never live up to the standards old memories provided?

Losing every ounce of motivation to carry on, Sherlock flopped onto the couch with a groan. Inner turmoil was so irritating. He debated over what to do, going over every available option in his head, when a familiar face sitting atop the mantle decided to invite itself into the discussion.

_Aren't you tired of lying?_ the skull questioned.

The detective glared it from where he sat.

_Everyone lies. I just happen to have an aptitude fo__r it._

_Ever think that telling them the truth could be a good thing?_

Sherlock dismissed the idea with a scoff.

_Oh, yes. I'm such a freak already; this will really tip their perspective over the edge. Not that I care. Life would simply be so much more intolerable with the London underworld breathing down my neck to perform parlor tricks._

Before the outdated piece of anatomy could reciprocate a response, footfalls echoed from downstairs. They were hurried, more rushed than his own had been, and Sherlock immediately knew who they belonged to. Who else could it have been but—

John stumbled through the front door, which was left ajar, and caught himself with a ragged call of, "—Sherlock!" He coughed, trying to regain his breath, while surveying whatever situation he had walked in on.

Which happened to be his flatmate holding a conference with the mantlepiece. Nothing unusual there.

John raised his brow quizzically. "Consulting the skull?"

Sherlock smirked despite himself, though found his gaze unable to meet that of the doctor's. "Just a friendly chat, actually," he said.

"A meaningful conversation, I'm sure."

The detective smirked again, but the humor was short-lived. It was obvious why his friend was in such a haste. John wanted and answers; not that Sherlock blamed him. Only he really was in no mood to deal with this sort of situation. Maybe that was why absconding from the flat had automatically seemed so appealing.

Fate, apparently, decided he'd run enough for one lifetime. It was time to amble towards the truth headlong, and in doing so, reveal the secrets he had so carefully concealed. Knowing this, however, did not make him any less thrilled to go through the trouble.

Luckily, though stern when it came to important matters like these, John Watson was as confused as any normal person would be after seeing what he saw. "About before—what happened with the suspect—exactly what—?"

Sherlock sighed. "You're really not very experienced at giving the third degree, are you?"

John laughed shakily. "'Fraid not." There was a distinguished pause. "That doesn't mean you're getting off the hook without answering me."

The sentence was more of an order than an inquiry, so the detective felt justified in saying nothing to it.

"I just...I hope you're not going to deny what occurred. Addressing it directly shouldn't be difficult, since you're generally pretty straightforward. And honestly, it seems a waste of valuable time; as both you, I, and Lestrade saw it with our own eyes. All I want to know is," John trailed off.

And finally, when he seemed to gather the nerve, added, "...how did you do it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock averted his eyes out the window, arm resting above the solid pane of glass, while watching the mounds of citizens scurry about. How many of them like him, walking among the normal people, just trying to keep in step? Or vice-versa? "You wouldn't believe me even if I said."

"Try me," his flatmate challenged.

There it was. The dare. The dare to say anything to catch them off guard. People issued it all the time, thinking they were too well-versed in this world and immune to surprise. Predictable. When the answer actually shattered their expectations, they never gained his sympathy.

Still, John was a friend, and all-too human, so he braced himself for the reaction to the bombshell he was about to drop.

"Fine, then," Sherlock sniffed, and crossed his arms belligerently. "Magic."

Muggles never did react well to having their prim little worlds turned upside down.

John looked as though he didn't believe he heard him correctly. _"Pardon?"_

Then again, the life he and John Watson shared was anything but 'prim.'

"Magic. I used magic to stun Badger and prevent the impending act of violence," repeated Sherlock.

"Yes, I saw that," John confirmed. "But you're saying you used...y-you what, jinxed the bloke with a nasty spell?"

Sherlock huffed. "Putting it rather vaguely there, but yes."

For a couple of minutes, John just stared.

"You know, I never thought you were the type to pull someone's leg." There was the immediate disbelief; next came the indignation— "Then again, maybe you are. But seriously, I was expecting something a tad more realistic from you, Sherlock."

The detective tensed, the oncoming fight foreseen. "This is as close to truth as you'll get, John, because this is—"

"Bollux," John cut off, suddenly angry. "The least you could do is not lie to my face about it!"

"I'm not joking," Sherlock snapped.

It took a few quiet moments of calm for both parties to simmer. When John finally recognized the expression on his flatmate's face to be nothing else than absolute seriousness, he was rightfully befuddled.

"You mean you're—you're not pull my leg here?" Skepticism was still present, but at last, John was willing to believe him.

"I'm a wizard, John," Sherlock reiterated coolly. "A person who retains the ability to use magic."

The doctor gaped incredulously. "Wizards exist?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, more than you know. They're everywhere; living amongst the population unnoticed. Especially here in London." Sherlock smiled thinly, knowing how absurd this must sound to someone who had no clue.

"...okay," the doctor said, trying to digest it all. "So, these magical folks, they just—what, hide in secrecy?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no. There's an entire magical community where they abide by their own laws and traditions. However, there are also those who coexist peacefully among the muggles."

"Muggles?"

"Non-magical people," Sherlock clarified, appearing mildly apologetic. "Sorry. It's just a term they—_we_—use."

"No offense taken," John assured, quite obviously not peeved, or merely unaware that some people took the word as an insult. "It's just...wow. A lot to take in."

"I imagine," the detective muttered blandly. Then he sighed. "You want to go grab a bite to eat?"

John was floored. "What?"

"Are you hungry? I'm feeling a bit peckish myself."

On one hand, Sherlock admitting to being 'peckish' was an astounding feat in itself. John was tempted to agree if only as an excuse to get his friend to eat a decent meal. But then there was the other hand...

"Uh, yeah, sure—you just spilled like, your deepest, most well-hidden secret to me, and you're suggesting we go out to eat?"

Sherlock blinked rather flippantly. "Well, yes. Since the cat's out of the bag, nothing much else I can do, can I? The whole point of a secret is to not have it told. Now that is has been, what have I got to lose?"

It was truly hard to argue with such simplistic logic when presented in the most concrete and confident of tones.

"Dinner, then?" he pressed, waiting for an affirmative.

"Alright," John agreed, pursing his mouth in bemusement. "Though can't you just, you know, conjure a sandwich out of thin air or something equally as convenient?"

Sherlock donned a sour look. "I'm not a bloody genie," he muttered tartly.

Unable to resist pursuing the matter, John went on, "If you were, you'd think it would be a lot more tidy around here. You could make it shine for dear Mrs. Hudson's sake, at the very least. "

Oh yes, he was going to have fun with this.

"Or glow, even! Can you make it glow?"

"Stop it," Sherlock warned, making his way out the door.

John grinned the whole way downstairs. Since, after all, annoyed as he was, Sherlock had never said he _couldn't_ make things glow either.

No, there never was a dull moment at the Baker Street residence.

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><p>Sherlock found himself dashing back up to the flat not three seconds after they'd stepped out the door.<p>

_'Wait a minute,'_ he told John, stopping abruptly outside their home. _'I just need to pop back in quick.'_

It really was nothing, thought Sherlock. Nothing vitally important, anyway.

For whatever strange reason, it was something he still felt had to be done.

He swiftly crossed the living area and went into his bedroom, avoiding the mess of experiments strewn about the floor. On the far wall, there were a few paintings adding to the decor. All of them had been hand-crafted and given as gifts by an old friend. A field in the countryside that reminded him of home. A barren tree with wicked-shaped branches standing tall.

Finally, a winged creature with the body of a horse, reptilian face-features, and bat-like wings spread out against a misty forest landscape.

Flipping it open to expose a secret compartment behind, Sherlock came to a lock that needed no combination. Holding his breath, he uttered the first—technically second, if you count subconscious magic, which barely counted at all in his book—spell he had in so long. He spoke it delicately, like greeting an old friend,

_"Alohomora."_

The small door behind the picture whooshed open. On the inside, it was no more than an ordinary muggle safe. That just so happened to be holding a few extraordinary objects. He saw the one he sought laying between an old pair of dog tags and a vial of a shimmering liquid.

A less-than-a-foot long, sleek stick of black wood. It laid proud and unique among the other valuables scattered across the hidden compartment, for none of them held a candle to the worth of such a tool.

Carefully, with a gentleness he rarely showed, Sherlock took the wand between his two index fingers, ghosting his thumb over the surface. It was covered in a fine layer of dust, probably from remaining untouched for a number of years.

"Hullo, old friend," he said quietly, enthralled by the potential power he could wield, yet had ignored, now coursing through his tingling fingertips. He compared the sensation to a knight reuniting with his sword after ages of retirement.

And he would brandish such a weapon again, it seemed, if the situation required it. Sherlock didn't know exactly why he was inclined to take such a caution, but his gut had rarely failed him before.

So without further examination, he slipped the wand into the inner pocket of his coat, safely tucked away and concealed from prying eyes. Maybe his paranoia was merely rearing its ugly head, but Sherlock decided it'd be best to keep it on his person now that his secret was uncovered.

Just in case.

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><p>Sherlock is vaguely foreshadowing for the future—John is making genie jokes. Hopefully they're all not too OOC?<p>

Let me know what you thought, since feedback is adored!


	3. Things You Never Knew

Well, good news. While being kept home with a stomach bug and fever means missing two finals which I will have to unhappily make-up, it also means an update.

Thank you all for the feedback and alerts! So, without further adieu, here's your next chapter!

Disclaimer: AH! I just realized I did not remind you all that I was in no way in legal possession of any of these characters or the show they exist in! Or the book! Drat..

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><p>After the whole secret sharing ordeal, both doctor and detective agreed that a quaint Chinese restaurant near Baker Street would suffice for an early supper.<p>

And a table near the back would certainly give them enough privacy to discuss private matters. Matters that would make any overhearing patron think they were a barmy pair of idiots.

Besides, there was a rambunctious party of five drinking cheap wine and fighting over eggrolls about two tables ahead of them—annoying but tolerable—so they were unlikely to be eavesdropped on. The waitress came to procure them some drinks, and only after her departure did Sherlock feel his phone vibrate with a new text message alert.

_What a mess, brother dear. Situation with ministry has already been taken care of. Are Obliterators necessary? -MH_

Unimpressed, Sherlock didn't even consider it when he typed back a reply.

_No. -SH_

Several minutes later, after the drinks had arrived, he received a response.

_As you wish. I recommend the Teriyaki. -MH_

_He would know precisely where I am. _Not that Sherlock was surprised. Only mildly irritated, but of course, Mycroft had saved the day again in that oh-so-efficient way of his, so he couldn't very well complain.

Even if Mycroft had not, he could care less what the ministry thought of his 'exposing magic in front of muggles'. He could get away with murder so long as the elder Holmes had sway, and Sherlock had a penchant for disregarding the rules anyway, no matter what position in government his brother held.

What was much more interesting, and worth his time, was the situation at hand.

"I'm honestly astounded at how quickly you put your faith in me," he said to his friend. "I mean, realistically, how many times does someone come up to you and say, 'Did you know I was a wizard? Yes, fancy that.'"

"Counting today, the total number remains somewhere around one," was John's bland response. "I get your point. At first, I thought you were just being a real jerk and messing with my head."

Sherlock's look of petulance was precariously close to a pout. "Could have given me a bit more credit. It's not like you're _Anderson_ or anything."

John laughed, the expression on his flatmate's face too comical to resist.

"And then I remembered that _I_ was a doctor. I saw that man go down and there was nothing medical about it. Despite being a real arse sometimes, you are the most honest person I know." The doctor appeared mindful. "So, why would you be lying? Left with no alternative, I went with the only other explanation. Process of elimination, right?"

He must have said something right, if Sherlock's answering grin was anything to go by.

"Quite so," agreed Sherlock, while John considered how to phrase his next sentence.

"Still pretty hard to swallow, though. I mean, Sherlock, since I've met you, you've always been—"

_"Psychopath." "Freak." "Bit odd, that one, isn't he?" "A high-functioning sociopath." "Lunatic."_

"—eccentric," John decided, a frown falling onto his face for no particular reason, "But there was never anything unearthly looking about you."

The consulting detective made a face. "It's not as though we all have neon-flashing signs above our heads or ride our broomsticks down the tube."

"I didn't mean, wait—You can ride _broomsticks?"_

Ignoring his question entirely, Sherlock said, "There really is no way to tell a wizard out of the everyday civilian crowd, unless they aren't wearing proper attire. If I spot any colorful, flowing robes, I'll let you know."

"Right. Thanks," John said, highly doubting it was a joke. When a rather terrifying notion came to mind. "Um."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock, sipping at his tea.

"Is Mycroft, well, is he a wizard, too?" the doctor inquired.

"No."

John sighed, relieved. "I don't think I could handle a scare like that. The man has enough bloody power as it is." Sherlock smirked impishly.

"Oh, but that doesn't mean he has no sway over the wizarding world. No, he has made quite the position for himself in the ministry," he added.

"A ministry. You have a ministry." His companion's voice was utterly deadpan.

"Of course," said Sherlock, in his _'obvious'_ voice. "What, do you think they'd let people with magical powers run amok in total anarchy? Please. No, there is a form of government, and here in the UK, it's the Ministry of Magic."

Something else apparently occurred to John at that moment, prompting him to continue, "Hang on, then. How can you do magic, but he can't? I assumed it ran in the family..." The doctor's brow furrowed in perplexity.

"You are not wrong." Sherlock nodded. "It does. However, there are many cases in which instead of having one or more magical parent, a child born of two muggles turns out to be a witch or wizard. There's no real rhyme or reason to it; it simply happens."

"Oh," said John. He could scarcely visualize some robe-wearing sorcerer telling his younger self and family that he was a wizard. Harry would have pissed herself laughing. "So... I guess you didn't see it coming, either?"

"I was a very clever boy for my age," Sherlock remarked, and he nearly rolled his eyes, knowing it was undoubtedly true. "But no, not even I could imagine what I really was. Think of how shocked my family was the day she stepped into our home and announced that we had a wizard in the family."

John nodded, then paused. "She?" he repeated. "Who's _she?"_

Sherlock barely heard the inquiry, already lost within his thoughts. Before he even realized it, he was opening his mouth and re-telling the day he recalled so clearly, even nineteen years later...

* * *

><p>Eleven-years-old, Sherlock Holmes had just been descending the staircase when there was a knock at the door. He halted where he stood. As far as he or Mummy or Mycroft knew, they hadn't been expecting visitors today.<p>

_How intriguing. _Forgetting why he had wanted to come downstairs in the first place, he waited until his mother strolled into sight, and opened the door with a cheery, "Hello?"

Sherlock peeked around the banister for a better look. The woman was dressed in an elegant pantsuit, but the fabric was new and barely worn. Obviously, whatever occupation she held did not require that particular style, but coming here did, he deduced.

"Pardon the mid-afternoon interruption, ma'am. Are you in fact Athena Holmes, late wife to Siger Holmes and mother to Mycroft and Sherlock of the same surname?"

"Yes," Mother replied indubitably, yet cautiously. The woman nodded as though she assumed so all along.

"My name is Amelia Bones, but please refer to me as Madam Bones. Everyone does," she said formally.

"Welcome, Madam Bones. To what do we owe the visit?" asked Mother.

"I am here on official business, which I would be happy to elaborate in full detail, if you wouldn't mind inviting me into your home?"

Mother agreed, and led the guest into the parlor. Sherlock followed behind, eager to know what this 'official business' entailed.

"You must be Sherlock," the visitor said brightly, when she caught sight of him. "Come now, dear, why don't you join us? Your youngest son is actually the reason for my visit today."

"And what might that reason be?"

Sherlock glanced over and saw Mycroft in the doorway, arms crossed, eyeing the madam suspiciously.

"Ah, so this is the oldest then? Mycroft, is it?" Madam Bones greeted amiably. Mother nodded.

"Mycroft, this is Madam Bones. She has come to inform us of something involving Sherlock, if you'd like to sit in?"

"Oh, yes, do join us. This is something the whole family should be present to hear," Ms. Bones urged.

"Hear what, exactly?" Sherlock finally questioned. "If you don't mind me asking, ma'am."

"Certainly. I reiterate my earlier introduction; my name is Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement of the Ministry of Magic. I have come to inform you that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Is this some sort of joke?" Mycroft spoke up eventually, though his tone never ranged from being anything other than polite. The lady seemed to respect this.

"No joke," Madam Bones denied eloquently. "Sherlock here, is in fact, a wizard.

Sherlock started, unprepared for such a blunt prognosis. "A _what?"_ he demanded, unable to grasp it at first.

The rest of his family were equally astonished.

"You'll understand if we don't take you seriously at first," said Mother stiffly. "What you're proposing is quite absurd!"

"But you are not denying the possibility of such, are you?" Madam Bones returned with a smile.

Mother shrugged. "Possibility is infinite."

"Indeed. In any case, I did bring proof of my words in the form of many official documents and such. However, I have found in the case of many visits such as these, that a more direct approach often helps."

The madam pulled out a long, gleaming stick of wood. For one absurd moment, Sherlock wondered if it was some sort of hideously disguised weapon of mass destruction. Of course, this must be false...

Without preparation or warning, she gave the wand a light flick, and instantly, an neatly wrapped pile of papers fell into her graceful hand. Okay, so he took it back. Maybe this _could_ be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

"Good heavens!" Mother cried in surprise, while Mycroft looked on in disbelief.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was mesmerized. His stomach was reeling with unforeseen butterflies.

_Other people can do these things, too...?_

"Convinced, now?" Madame Bones asked Mother, who quickly nodded. "Good. That makes this entire process much, much easier. Now, I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock took the parchment she handed him and found that it was just an ordinary envelope. It appeared to be an acceptance letter to the school Madam Bones was speaking of.

On the front, it read:

_Mr. S. Holmes_

_Second Corner Bedroom on the Second Floor_

_9 Chrysanthemum Lane_

_Little Hangleton_

Shocked by the sheer amount of accuracy the address contained, he opened it up and scanned the page's contents:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

_of_ WITCHCRAFT _and _WIZARDRY

Headmaster Dumbledore:

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

("A supreme mugwump, what in the world—?" John began, but Sherlock shushed him with an irritated look.)

Dear Mr. Holmes,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

_Minerva McGonagall_

Minerva McGonagall,

_Deputy Headmistress_

Even more intrigued than before, Sherlock obediently passed on the letter for his mother and brother to read. When they both finished, Mycroft's face belied slight fascination. Mother looked at their guest in confusion.

"How did he acquire the powers, then? No one else in our family has magical abilities of any sort as far as I know," she stated, quite perplexed. Sherlock belatedly realized he had no idea either.

"Yes, this is true. You see, it is not uncommon for a child with wizard or witch qualities to be born in a non-magical family. Sherlock is simply another muggle-born, no different from those raised in pure or half-blood households," Madame Bones explained.

Mother frowned. "Doesn't that put him at a disadvantage to those children, though?"

"Certainly not. Some are under the impression that this is true, but it's hogwash really. Hogwarts invites children of all sorts so that they can learn to harness their full potential, and each has a fair chance of accomplishing such, pure-blooded or not."

Mother carefully debated. Knowing the choice was not specifically hers, she whirled around to her son. "What do you think, Sherlock?"

At first, he failed to answer. Instead, Sherlock glanced over and looked the witch woman square in the face. His eyes were full of distinct curiosity. "So, there are others like me? With these...powers?"

"Hundreds," Madam Bones nodded. Sherlock's face perceptibly perked up. A whole school of kids with powers like his... Imagining it sent goose-bumps along his arm.

_I'm not the only one after all._

"I want to go," he declared. Then appealed to his mother with an impassioned, _"Please."_

"Well, it is quite far away... I don't know," she fretted indecisively.

Madam Bones jumped in to assist, "Children are supervised at all times. The teachers lodge in the castle as well as senior students who are assigned to watch over their separate houses and dorms. So you see, your son would be well taken care of and in no danger. Hogwarts is one of the safest strongholds in Britain, and quite possibly, the world."

"It would be no different than Sherlock attending a boarding school next year," Mycroft added in diplomatically, gently steering her into compliance.

"True, true," conceded Mother. She appraised her youngest son seriously, and asked, "Do you really wish to go, dear?"

"More than anything."

Seeing his determination over the subject, that seemed to be the end of it. "Then it's settled. He will go."

"Splendid," proclaimed Madame Bones. She shook both Mother's and Mycroft's hand. At Sherlock's turn, she beamed triumphantly. "Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, son. I am sure you will make a fine addition to the school."

She winked at him in reassurance before departing in the same cordial manner in which she had arrived. When she left, Mrs. Holmes was all a twitter, re-reading his letter and muttering to Mycroft about the necessary arrangements and requirements.

As usual, the youngest Holmes child steered clear of the flutter, preferring to keep his own raging thoughts concealed inside. After years of self-doubt, repression and trepidation over the mysterious things he could do, illumination had finally emerged. _He was a wizard._ Knowing this and also realizing that there were others with similar abilities somehow absolved him of a very hefty burden.

Sherlock hung onto this truth, and for the first time in his life, felt a little less alone.

* * *

><p>The last fragment of the memory scurried off back into the databank of his mind, and Sherlock was thrown back into the present. The last line of the story faded away as he took notice of his current surroundings.<p>

The table a few paces ahead of them had reached an obnoxious level of loud. He was sure John would have said something by now, in that polite, people-friendly way of his (if only to stop Sherlock from doing the complete opposite), but the man was too caught up in the story.

"And so...?" John pressed.

Sherlock glared passed him at the noisy party, his temper nearing its capacity. A sudden impulse surged through him with a most mischievous idea in mind.

"And so I went," said Sherlock quietly, eyes locked on the cluster of annoying patrons, "where I learned how to do," and he reached into his coat and discreetly pulled out the wand hidden within, _"this."_

* * *

><p>Yes. Mycroft is so BAMF he doesn't even need a wand to be powerful in the magical government.<p>

A/N: I know that Muggle-born wizards have someone come to explain to their families about the magic world before they go to Hogwarts. I don't know if it's a professor or ministry official who does it, or even if Amelia Bones would be one of those people. I just liked her in the books and wanted to put her in the story. Hopefully, it turned out well.

And now, I must study. Leave a review, please!


	4. Affectional Interference

Thank you all for the many alerts and responses, and I'm _very_ sorry about the wait! I'm going to try and do weekly updates from now on, so if I start to slip, remind me to hurry up, okay?

More flashbacks and action are underway, but this chapter is less exciting I'm afraid, and more of me just giving some screen time to Mycroft. The man has powers beyond my muse's control.

* * *

><p>You can never have a normal outing with Sherlock Holmes, even if it isn't an actual <em>date.<em> This is the unspoken rule John Watson has become extra accustomed to, which was only further confirmed by tonight's dinner.

An abrupt outcry rang out from the rowdy table ahead of them—who John had been ignoring in favor of Sherlock's tale. After all, how often did he hear about the private man's past? Glancing over, he saw the noisy party guests in a state of befuddlement, pouring out their glasses, only to find empty air.

Somehow, John knew well enough to know Sherlock's mumbled words had something to do with it. But of course, just before he asked—

"This would be a prudent time to take our leave," his friend said swiftly, briskly retreating for the door.

John got up after him, having prepaid the bill, and left a rather lengthy tip in his haste.

"What did you do back there?" he wanted know, when they were outside in the cool, fresh air.

Smirking, Sherlock looked supremely pleased with himself. "Drought charm. Taking away their annoying alcohol should make them a tad more tolerable for future patrons."

As he explained, John got a peek at the hidden item still clenched in his hand.

"Is that a _stick?"_

Sherlock glanced down, as though just having noticed the object he was wielding.

"I'm so glad you asked. John, this is the most valuable parcel a magical being can own. Possibly the most powerful wizard tool that exists in the world."

"It's a wooden stick," the doctor deadpanned.

"Blackthorn wood, to be more accurate," continued Sherlock, pompously.

"Sherlock, that is a wooden stick."

"We wizards prefer the term wand, thank you," he finished tartly. Clearly, there was no point in arguing with him over the subject. _All hail the Stick of Power, then. _

"I will never get used to this," John murmured to himself. Sherlock's acute hearing caught it anyway.

"Precisely what you said about finding body parts in the fridge. As we speak, I still have a mostly intact elbow taking up residence there that I have yet to be admonished about."

"Right. Thanks for reminding me," the doctor quipped dryly. "I'll be cleaning out the fridge later."

"Provided I remind you to do so," said Sherlock dastardly, storing the wand back inside his inner pocket. "Who knows? In light of recent events, I could easily forget."

John sent him a sharp glare. "You wouldn't dare."

"Better hurry home," Sherlock said dully, disregarding the warning; as per usual.

"Seriously, Sherlock—" John sighed in exasperation, jogging to catch up, "I command you to stop being a prick!"

The detective turned on his heel, while walking backwards, and shouted, "It only works if you have the stick!"

"Wand!"

_"Exactly."_

* * *

><p><em>Sparks sailed through the air. Wands clashed, magical intensity cut through the air like fire; breath came in short, electrifying gasps. Colors blew like fireworks across his eyes; an abhorred, deathly blast of green—<em>

_—and laughter, high-pitched and malign, creepier than even Moriarty's ringing through his skull—_

Pale eyes snapped open.

The clock on his bedside table read 3:12. Sherlock had a sinking intuition that he would not be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

In spite of recent events, John was most likely asleep downstairs, exhaustion taking over his system. And as brutal as insomnia was in unwanted instances like these, Sherlock did not have the heart to go bother him.

He lie in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling's endless supply of shadows before shutting his eyes again. Slumber still bid him the metaphorical middle finger, though, and so Sherlock remained vexed by the Sandman's absence.

Counting sheep? Boring. Naming the periodic elements? Too easy. Instead, Sherlock let the seconds tick into minutes which would eventually bleed into the hours of dawn. Cracking the right eye open, he sneaked a glance at the digital clock.

3:17.

The night dragged on.

* * *

><p>After watching the morning news, John decided a bit of early morning laundry couldn't hurt. Slightly hungry as he was, breakfast could wait. He began the effort of picking up the articles of soiled clothes strewn about the flat.<p>

With the tail end of his robe lagging behind, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, rapid fingers tapping away at his cellphone. Some things, no matter the amount of magic, never change, thought John with an eye roll.

"You cannot _possibly_ have another case already."

"Not yet," Sherlock huffed. "I was checking my inbox. Expecting a demand for explanation from Lestrade."

"Oh, he called while you were asleep. We're meeting up with him at the station near noon," John elaborated, and he assumed Sherlock heard as he bypassed him into the kitchen.

"Wasn't sleeping," was the detective's curt response, whilst digging through the cabinets. "Where was the coffee last? Behind the finger bowl or below the spice rack?"

"Top cabinet, next to the iodine," imparted John. A minute later, Sherlock nodded in thanks.

"Not at all?" he then asked, going back to the bit about no sleep—to which his friend shook his curly head. Despite his own lack restful of hours, John pitied the poor genius. "Had a bit of trouble myself, what with all there is to think about; but I managed at least a few hours."

"Mm." He supposed that was Sherlock code for '_I honestly don't care.'_ "I'm going to step into the shower," his flatmate announced, and stalked off to presumably do so.

Finished filling the wash basket, John heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs. Perfect timing. If he convinced Mrs. Hudson to act as their housekeeper once more, he could get in a warm shower himself before they were due to meet with Lestrade.

When the door to the flat was opened, John turned to greet the landlady with an airy, "Mrs. Hudson, I have the wash, if you could please—"

Upon seeing the person in the doorway, however, his pulse skipped a precious beat when it was obviously _not_ who he expected. Not-Mrs. Hudson gave him a civil 'Good morning', wearing a very expensive looking three-piece suit. John bent down to retrieve the basket, which had fallen out of his grasp in surprise, with a sigh.

"Christ, Mycroft," he muttered hoarsely. "You're lucky I don't hide my rifle in the laundry pile."

"Quite," the elder Holmes said coolly.

The fact that Sherlock's older brother had been able to enter their locked home should have unnerved him further, but once again, John has been acquainted with such a scenario enough times to know better.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" the doctor recited flatly.

Mycroft grinned in an almost friendly interpretation of a smile. "Regardless of Sherlock's own opinion, can't a brother simply come by to visit his younger sibling's home?"

_Not likely, _thought John, suspicious. Fancy that, Mycroft spontaneously showing up the after, well, the day after John discovered magic. _Does he that know I know about Sherlock...? _That would certainly warrant a visit.

With the way Sherlock freaked when he first found out, John could scantly fathom how the older Holmes brother might react. Regardless, not wanting to beat around the bush, he decided to just address the matter directly and get the bloody moment over with.

"We know, Mycroft," John said ceremoniously.

"Know what?" inquired Mycroft, still with the air of pleasantry.

"We know that Sherlock is a..a..." Sodden socks, how was he supposed to put it? "A wizard."

A brief pause, and then,

"Hmm. Indeed."

Well, _that_ was a welcome alternative to how he could have reacted, but John decided it still sounded pretty _under_whelmed, all things considered.

"Dr. Watson, I am already well aware of the matter. Have no fear, my brother has not requested any Obliterators, and is free to do as he please, thanks to my interference at the ministry."

_Obliterators? _wondered John. _Not even sure if I want to know. Should make a point to ask Sherlock about it later. _

"Er...thank you?" he replied uncertainly. A short, slightly awkward silence followed.

"Does it bother you, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked out of nowhere. "That my brother is different from our kind."

The doctor sent him an incredulous glare.

_"Our kind?_ Last time I checked, he bleeds red just like the rest of us," John replied, and shrugged. "So he can do magic. It's not a far cry from all the other astounding stuff he does on a regular basis."

Amazingly, Mycroft shot a short half-smile at him, so whatever he said must have been right.

"I must confess, it is a relief to know you feel that way."

"Why... What did you expect? A dunk in the Thames river to see if he survives, like an ol' Salem witch trial? " John snorted at the absurdity. Mycroft, however, looked grave, as though this were a very real concern.

"Witches burnt at the stake, tales of evil sorcerers. Pop culture can depict age-old concerns. The muggle world has never been particularly accepting to wizard kind; nor has it been generally accepting towards Sherlock especially. You can see the reason for my concern."

John's eyes imperceptibly narrowed, suspicion itching at him again. "Are you getting at something here?"

"I mean, that by revealing his true nature to anyone, my brother has put himself in quite a precarious position. And I can only hope that if the times comes, Dr. Watson, that you will dig him out of the ditch if I cannot."

It occurred to John very suddenly, like the whoosh of a warm breeze, that there was much more to that statement than met the eye. A hidden message only another brother could decipher.

_Will you look after my younger brother?_

And it is fairly possible that it's the most simplistic task Mycroft has presented him with to date.

"Sure I will," _I promise to protect him. From what? Hell if I know, but it is Sherlock, after all._ "I swear."

Mycroft appraised him sternly, assessing if he truly meant it. There was dark sort of sincerity lingering in his eyes.

"I'll hold you to that, John Watson," the older Holmes imparted him with, and frankly, John could compare the sensation akin to being knocked over by a freight train. "Make no mistake."

Nodding, the doctor collapsed into his favorite chair as the (possibly) most powerful man in England showed himself out (in the same manner he had let himself in).

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft greeted, meeting her in the doorway. The landlady bustled past him with a cheerful 'Hello' of her own. She set down a tray of steaming scones and tea on the armrest of John's chair.

"Problem, deary? You look a bit pale."

"Feels like I've just made a deal with the devil," admitted John, in a low murmur.

"Ah," she said with an understanding nod, her eyes flicking towards the now vacated doorway. "Have a scone."

And as John sampled one of Mrs. Hudson's famously delicious scones, he thought, _Well, that solves one problem this morning._

* * *

><p>Mycroft never took too kindly to being scared. Even at age fourteen, he had a high resilience to fear or any other troubling emotions.<p>

When you spent countless afternoons looking after a little brother who had a penchant for danger, you learn pretty quickly that there are worse things than mere phobias to contend with in this world.

Sherlock had been born a loud, unbridled mess of energy; or so their father told him. And after the many transitions from infant to toddler to child, Mycroft saw no significant change.

So one afternoon, when his little brother wandered off on his own unnoticed, he found no cause for alarm. It was not like he could go very far, and he always came back in time for supper. Mycroft paid the disappearance no mind and returned to the frightfully addictive Agatha Christie novel he'd been reading at his leisure.

Until Sherlock failed to show up.

Mother, after an hour of worried pacing, called Mycroft down and asked if he had seen his brother lately. He said he hadn't, wondering why that was an issue—Sherlock's favorite game to date was _hide-and-not-be-found._ She told him that his little brother had been missing for well over four hours now.

Last time anyone heard from him, Sherlock had proclaimed that the house was dreadfully drab and that he would be going to the park. But when Father went down to check, the playground was empty. There was no sign of any other children or their lost son. Mother was overwhelmed with worry and it was debated whether they should inform the police.

Finally, later that evening, a limping figure trudged up to the door carrying a rather pathetic bundle of limbs. Mr. Frank Bryce, an elderly man who lived nearby, was holding an injured and unconscious Sherlock in his arms.

It was a miracle the old bloke had managed to bring him thus far. Bryce was, after all, a very old war vet. Mummy alternated between thanking him over and over again and fretting over her bleeding boy. Father had to sit her down before she went into hysterics and prepared to fetch the doctor, who lived within a short walking distance.

"Mycroft, go sit with your brother," Father ordered, and he was quick to comply.

After all, what good was a fourteen-year-old in these instances? And if there was one emotion Mycroft loathed more than the rest, it was helplessness. Silently, he arrived at his brother's bedside.

The little boy's skin was paler than usual, making the marks from his beating stick out all the more vividly. Normally, even when hurt, Sherlock was always determined to keep a stiff upper lip. Weakness was the trite emotion he sought to conquer; much like Mycroft did with fear.

Looking at his brother now, though, all he felt was nauseating amount of disgust. Never before had his baby brother looked so small and misplaced.

A chilling rage enveloped his innards and lit them aflame. Yet none of this anger impeded the concern for the boy in bed. Tentatively, he reached out and took the younger's hand in his own. Sherlock unexpectedly flinched.

Mycroft started in surprise.

"Sherlock?" He gently took hold of his shoulder. A slight whimper was the only reply. "Sherlock, are you awake?"

"Yes," his brother croaked in a weak voice. One of the knots curling around Mycroft's stomach snapped in fury.

"Sherlock, what happened? Who did this to you?" he asked in a flurry, in case Sherlock passed out before handing over a name (_one ruddy name, that's all he needed, or many if that was the verdict_).

Meekly, his little brother cracked open a pair of pained eyes. It clearly took an effort to do so in his current state, so Mycroft knew whatever was meant to be said, it would have to be brief.

"Don't hate me, okay?" he stammered, which was frightening in itself. Sherlock _never_ stuttered. "Don't be mad."

"I won't be," Mycroft said softly. _Why would I? You are the one who's hurt._ "I promise."

Sherlock appraised him for a long moment, wondering if that were true.

"I can do stuff," he rasped surreptitiously. "Strange stuff. Stuff no one else can." His brow furrowed slightly, a far off glaze to his eyes. "I thought they'd like it. I thought maybe then they'd like me...but they didn't like _different."_

Even Mycroft, who could neither decode or fathom what such an odd sentence meant, was troubled by the obvious distress it caused his sibling.

__If I ever catch the scoundrels who did this, they will rue the day they ever fell from their mother's git-haboring womb,_ _he sincerely vowed. And Mycroft rarely made such a vehement oath without meaning to keep it.

"S'not their fault," Sherlock said quietly, as though having deduced his violent thoughts, "No one likes a _freak."_

His older brother frowned.

"You're not a freak," Mycroft stated firmly, tightening his grip on the singularly unabused shoulder. The room went quiet then, where in he simply gazed at the suffering child, whose haunted eyes stared back.

"Liar," was the raspy response, so late and low that he barely caught it.

Before he even had a chance to question the accusation, the doctor had arrived and immediately took charge of his wounded brother. Reluctantly, Mycroft left the professional to his work.

The end diagnosis was three cracked ribs, one broken wrist, and a mild concussion; the rest of him dotted with multiple bruises and abrasions and cuts to boot. Not a wonderful sight for a seven-year-old. While the physical damage could be documented, the doctor surmised that the emotional damage could be much, much more.

Sherlock was never a particularly emotional child. But what happened over the next few weeks was downright disturbing.

He got quiet. Sherlock used to go on about any subject without end. Now he rarely babbled at all. He shied away from touch. He stared at the wall for long hours at a time, lost in thought.

No matter how hard he, Mummy, Daddy, or any counselor tried to get him to speak about it, Sherlock would not recount what occurred that night. He claimed memory loss. Mycroft could not recall ever hearing such a preposterous lie. And for a short, terrible lapse of faith, he was truly scared his sibling might never mend.

Children, though, had the miraculous capacity for recovery in the aftermath of trauma.

Eventually, the wounds did heal. Scars faded. Sherlock began reverting back to his normal self—or what was considered 'normal' for him. There was the occasional nightmare. The unearthly bouts of silence. The refusal to visit the neighborhood park alone anymore.

But for those sullen few weeks of recovery, his younger brother had been a ghost. A pensive little boy fighting monsters unknown inside his head. And when the old him finally emerged from the husk, Mycroft had never thought he'd miss the uncontrollable ball of intellectually energy he cared very deeply about.

Sherlock simply resumed being Sherlock. He climbed tall trees, poked at poisonous plants, experimented with mud, and dissected the dead frogs from the pond. Maybe the other kids were all playing sports or watching telly, but frankly, what did that matter? If the world wasn't going to accept his brother, Mycroft decided, then he would just have to make sure his brother could handle all the world threw at him.

Being 'ordinary' was so insipid in the first place.

* * *

><p>Er, for some reason I'm just not happy how most of this chapter turned out. Was it okay, you think? I'm hopeful. (: Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated.<p> 


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